Abomination of Desolation
by devilberry
Summary: "And I need to write down his words exactly as he says them because one day this bastard is going to get himself killed and I don't want to forget what his voice sounded like or what an asshole he was." Romantic comedy about the end of the world. ZombieAU
1. o1

Post Apocalyptica! Written _completely_for shits and giggles. Leo/Elliot & others. Chaptered fic.

"Abomination of Desolation" is a term used in the Hebrew Bible to refer to the Apocalypse/the end of mankind._  
and upon the wing of abominations one that maketh desolate; and even unto the full end, and that determined, shall wrath be poured out upon the desolate._

* * *

_The following are the contents of a black leather-bound journal that was found during a small excavation mission. (Archeologist: Jack Vessalius, age 25. Project Leader: Glen Baskerville, age 27.)_

_The pages are unnamed, undated, and unsigned. _

_The time at which this journal was written is uncertain, but we are to believe that it was written at an early point after the large breakout of Illegal Contractors, when the Chains were first introduced into mainstream activity _

_The book was found abandoned in the desert. December 13th 2023. _

_—Glen Baskerville_

* * *

And there's a bullet in the middle of the forehead. _Bang_.

Human beings are very adaptable creatures. If they do the same thing everyday—no matter how bloodsoaked or violent or fucking _disgusting_—they can eventually adapt to it. Just repeat yourself day in and day out, darling. You could probably get used to even death itself if you managed to find a way to kill yourself over and over and over again.

(It would probably get boring after a while. Death, I mean.)

The car's parked and still running. The hotrodred stands out against the tanyellow sand like an eyesore. A soft buzz and a crackling radio can possibly be heard over the sound of _slaughter _if one listens closely enough. And I really ought to be less critical because, honestly, he doesn't find _that_ much joy in burying lead into the skulls of the empty husks of decomposing half-alive human corpses. And their sweet little pet Monster Masters; the objects that control their every thought and action.

Don't let me get ahead of myself, now. I need to write this down for you, in hopes _someone_ sees what I have to say. And allow me to congratulate you, my dear reader, on staying alive for this long. I can only hope to be so deeply blessed, but I'm sure I'm long dead by the time of your reading this.

I suppose I should begin at the begging. Isn't that how the saying goes? _Begin at the beginning, go on until you reach the end, then stop_. Forgive my misquoting. I'm paraphrasing here. (My copy of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland _was burned along with all of my other precious, precious books left at the orphanage. Along with all of the important footnotes I'd taken in them. An essay for every novel I'd read, and I've only made it through _half_ of the library's collection. Ah, they all burned equally, regardless of what I had/hadn't read or written in. Up in flames. Down the rabbit hole, perhaps.)

My deepest apologies for veering so constantly off topic. Concentration is hard to come by these days, particularly when screams and gunshots and the grisly cacklecrackle of the radio are all noises one acquaints himself with over the long and slowly passing days. _Bangbang_. There's that noise again. As much as I prefer it when he shoots things (swords equal closer range which equals more blood which gives me more to wash), the sharp ring of bullets leaving their home and entering a body is so…so very loud. And unsettling.

Maybe it's just the Monster in Me (_Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, but we'll get there later)_, but when he gets into a Chain-slaying mood, it doesn't exactly give me a good feeling. I trust him with my life, sure, but if ever finds me worthless I'm dead. Not that I see how he finds use of me now, but it's a nice thought. That he thinks I actually do something other than take up space and fill the sad little space in his heart left by beloved big brothers and sisters. (He doesn't talk about it much; we don't really talk much in general. Arguments don't count as conversation.)

His name is Elliot.

_Bang_. There goes another one.

That makes…three corpses, if my count is correct. Elliot always hits his mark, so I know none of the bullets have gone to waste. I'd count the grotesque malformed bodies if I could see that far ahead of my own face, but I wear glasses and they're not mine and horribly inaccurate and it's a wonder the pen and paper in front of me can blend together and form words for all I can see right now. Elliot and I found them lying amongst the wreckage of his house and I think he said they used to be in ownership of one of his brothers (Fred?) before _slice_ and his head was cut off. No one knew, but there was a Chain and a Contractor lurking about the mansion and did it love to killkillkill Elly's family. Only he and his two adopted brothers survive.

Supposedly, we're supposed to be on our search and looking for them now, but how I would be lying if I said I believed we could find them easily.

(We're also looking for that son of a bitch Contractor so Elliot can maybe stuff a bullet or a dozen in him. He is nowhere near above revenge, my little companion.)

"Come help me out, here," He growls. (And I need to write down his words exactly how he says them because one day this bastard is going to get himself massacred and I don't want to forget what his voice sounded like or what an _asshole_ he was.) "Bring the tank."

[_Oil smudges litter the pages. Finger prints.]_

And he yelled at me to come help, and I stashed your sweet little leather bound pages away. Cautiously and sensibly, because God forbid he sees it. _"Only little girls write in diaries."_ He's such a Neanderthal. I carried the gas can to him and was blessed with the honor of raining fire down onto cadavers. Four of them. I must've missed something amidst my thoughts and the radio's white noise. One of them is wearing a labcoat, and we ponder on this for a moment.

"_Abyss,_" He says, getting in the car and lighting a cigarette. I used to yell at him for the nasty habit he'd picked up from _one _of his brothers, but he told me, damnit, he gets to pick his own poison and he'll be a fucking lucky bastard if he fucking lives long enough to fucking die of fucking lung cancer. (His words, not mine.) I stopped harassing him after that, and starting silently praying to whatever God is left in this abandoned desert for a quick, horrifying, painless case of termination-via-secondhand-smoke. "Her coat," motioning to the pile of burning, burning, burning behind us, "was from those labs. She must've come from a source. One must be close by."

If we're getting close to a Lab, then we're proverbially fucked.

Leather gloves grip the steering wheel and his heel grinds into the pedal. This car is old and rotting but it's _fast_ and Elliot is still a stupid teenage boy and likes fast convertibles. I can't complain much, though, because speeding through the desert in a topless car makes the wind smack into my face and it makes me feel so _cold_ like I'm not one of the last few goddamn people left on the Earth and stuck in this Hellhole.

His fingers drift to the knobs on the radio, and he flips through stations like he doesn't already know all the airwaves are dead. The cigarette clenched in his jaw will already be worn down to a nub by the time he gives up and shoves a cassette into the radio's open mouth. Screaming and guitars and a chord of pointlessnothing fill our ears, and we've both memorized every word to every song on the damn tape, but we still like it. I do, at least, and Elliot keeps playing it so he must, too. It's unlike Elliot to do anything for the benefit of others, so he _can't_ be playing it out of the goodness of his heart or anything.

We're going at an unbearable speed, and I'm always afraid my glasses are going to fall off my face despite the fact that I know they won't. Pages flutter and I can almost _feel_ his eyes glance my way as he tries to discern my words.

I know he can't do it. I smile to myself.

We're ruining out of gasoline, I tell him. He swears. We're going to be needing a _lot_ if we'll be hitting an Abyss soon. He could really use a new shirt, too. His ratty white t-shirt dyed red and reeking of gasoline and burnt flesh. He growls at the comment, but knows I'm right, so doesn't create any further remarks. He spits the worn-down stick of poison out onto the asphalt and, like clockwork, puts the tape into the cassette player. Familiar loud, obnoxious noises fill my ears and I subconsciously reach my hand to turn the dial to the right and make the music much louder.

Elliot smacks my hand away. "No. We're talking now. And, damnit, if we're stopping to get gas and your _clothes_ then we're getting a fucking new cassette." I don't care too much. So long as the old one is held onto. It's got quite catchy songs wound into its outdated recording. I mention something about wanting a new jacket—maybe a red one—and he tells me the one I have is _not_ gasoline soaked or completely bloodcolored so it's fine.

But I want a red jacket, I have to remind him, for that very reason. The crimson of the jacket would hide the bloodstains ohso nicely.

"Idiot." and he accelerates. He loves looking for ways to kill us that don't involve Chains. Every time we stop to sleep at an outdated building he always leads us to roof. Stares at the pavement and tells me how he'd rather die like this. _"We don't get to choose how we're born or how we live or what the Hell happens to us, so wouldn't it be nice to have control over this one thing…?"_

"Where should we stop, anyway? You still have that map or have you lost it yet?" He knows I haven't lost it. It's neatly tucked away in the glove compartment, amidst a sea or pretzels, cigarettes, and Skittles. We have a box of Coca-Cola cans in the backseat and that's the basic diet we survive on.

I look at the map, and it tells me we're not to far from ***** _[I have omitted city names and surnames from my report, Sir, with all due respect. I wish for this unknown author to hold his anonymity.]_ It's a big enough place, so there must be somewhere for us to steal a few halfway decent shirts. Maybe a jacket, but God forbid I get my hopes up.

"You should sleep," he tells me. In the soft voice I like that he sometimes uses. "It'll take us about two hours to get there," one and a half, tops, with the way _he_ drives. "and we don't know what we'll run into. One of us should have some sleep in our bones."

Elliot tends to use words like "bones," "blood," and "death," a lot. I think he's disturbed. Or maybe just very sad.

His one hand lingers on the armrest between the driver and passenger seat. I don't know why the Hell he wears black leather gloves in this scorching heat, but I have my denim jacket on, so I can't say too much. I stretch out like a cat, _meow_, and casually place my pale hand to cover his black-encased one. It's given a soft pat—out of comfort? I couldn't even tell you—before I retract it.

Some sleep may be nice right now.

(Even though I still haven't properly introduced my story, have I?)


	2. o2

_I apologize for taking so long to update, and also how slowly the plot is progressing  
It'll pick up in the next chapter (or the one after-I have yet to decide), which won't take me as long. I promise._

* * *

Elliot and I have decided that this is one of our favorite parts of being the last two people on the planet. (I think we are, anyway. Elliot swears if we move up to The City we're going to be able to find more.)

The shopping.

As long as it's still in existence, it's free. And ours for the taking. And we tend to take quite a bit.

"We're heading North, kid," We're the same age, I think. It's not like we talk about it, but I certainly know we're not far apart enough for him to be calling me kid. But Elliot likes feeling superior, so I nod no matter what he refers to me as. "So maybe you should grab a jacket."

(He's got a black trench coat under his arm, the bastard. It's not as though he has anyone he has to look cool and badass for. It's just me, him, and the tumbleweeds.)

I feel the need to ask him about food, because I don't know how much longer I can stuff stale pretzel bites into my mouth before I lose the little sanity I have left. He smiles, like what I just said could somehow be skewed as cute or endearing, and he tells me to go look. Gather up what I can find. His tone is so smooth and level, I'm slightly surprised when he doesn't ruffle my hair affectionately. Not that Elliot is wont to do that sort of thing.

We've come across a strip mall, empty and abandoned just like everywhere else we go. Elliot's flipping through the racks at The Salvation Army, because he has this odd logic that if clothes are older they are therefore more durable. (I think he's being a sentimental bastard, though. Grabbing handfuls of clothes older than he is, trying to hold onto the fraying remains of the human race. Wants to retain their culture through their denim jeans and worn out sweaters.)

"I'll be next door." I mumble, motioning over to convenience store/gas station nearby. Nothing there besides greasy and crispy snacks and sweets, but it's a good dose better than nothing. It's not like we can hope to eat all we want and get fat. There's too much killing to do and too little food to eat to maintain an unhealthy physique. We're both withering away to nothing, but pretending like we're too busy being Hot Shit to notice.

He barely even noticed when I slammed the door shut.

And then I almost died.

Not to be melodramatic, but the Chain I saw in that fucking gas station was the scariest creature I had ever seen. The thing was covered in bright, angry, red burns. Open and oozing like a disease. Teeth—fangs, really—all over. Big as a house, and twice as wide. The man behind the monster middle aged, as they almost always are, and looking like he's already dead. White button down ruffled and un-ironed (as if there's anyone alive to look after his wardrobe for him) and splattered in shades of reds. His hair is oily and greasy and slicked back and he probably hasn't washed it since he contracted, the poor bastard. After getting over my initial fear, I'd realized that I left my gun in the car. Well, shit.

Running from a Chain, particularly a large and nasty one, is something I'd never advise to anyone. But now I have to go and play Damsel in Distress for Elliot. I think he secretly loves when I do that. And I'm practically running into his arms when I realize that I haven't even gotten any food for us.

Bang. Bang. Bang. One for the Chain, one for the Contractor, and one for good luck. (Not that the Chain needed a bullet, and not that the Contractor needed two, but Elliot may just be a bit overprotective. He enjoys keeping a watch over what's his, I think. And I somehow masochistically fit myself in the category.)

And the blood spurts out the back of both their heads. The oozing burnt bleeding thing vaporized into thin air, and the greasy grimy little man drops dead. More blood seeps out of his skull and his chest, and it stains his shirt even further—the white fabric almost completely lost to red dye.

Sputtering and tripping over my own words, I mumble out a "thanks." Re-adjusting my glasses, I notice a red rip in his tanned skin—right through the forearm—before I begin to shove off in the opposite direction. Idiot, is all I can spit at him.

"It just got me with its nails," He tries to justify, growling at the small defeat. "Creepy little bitch." And now he's just pouting. Teeth poking out of his mouth to sink into the pink of his lip, he wipes at the gash with his fingers, as though he's trying to collect the blood as it spills.

My sigh of relief can barely keep itself locked inside my mouth and I exhale. Nails, fine, just no fangs. Every Chain has a different set of teeth; some shiny, some white, some blunt, some sharp, some dark and gnarled and decayed. But they hall have Venom. Yellow and shiny and putrid, it's an evil elixir. One drop is a death sentence. Rather, a sentence as a Contractor, which is a great deal worse, I assure you. You're forced to kill to live and your entire existence is drawn out from behind a monster. You become a slave to the Chain.

(Unless you're able to break free of its bond, but you're almost better off killing yourself.)

Leather gloves slick and slimy with blood as I knock his fingers away and call him an idiot again. I'm playing the leader for once as I drag him back to the convenience store, praying the First Aid Kit didn't have the ever-loving crap ransacked out of it.

The sun is starting to set, orange and red and pink creaking into the horizon. We're going to need to get back in the car soon if we're going to spend the night driving. Either that or find a safe hole to hide ourselves inside of until the sun rises again. Abandoned hotels aren't really that hard to come by, and I'd suggest we go find one now, but my stomachs has been rumbling for hours and I'm in dire need of some sort of _something_, or things could get most unpleasant. Not to mention Elliot's wound really is better off treated sooner rather than later.

I cautiously crack the knob of the small store and peek around the corner. I can practically hear Elliot rolling his eyes behind me. Better safe than with another laceration in your arm, I tell him. He snorts.

And of course there's another lot of Chains inside.

He goes for his gun—tucked away softly in his back pocket like it always is, as though he won't sit on the thing the wrong way and get a bullet in his back—but his arm's still weeping blood so I manage to beat him there, snaking my arms around him and grasping the cold metal.

They're very small, these Chains. Less gnarly and nasty than the Big Bad outside. More in number, though. Bangbangbangbang. I'm a horrible shot, and Elliot teased me even though he was bleeding like a bitch and I was trying to slaughter some monsters at the moment, thank you very much.

And one of them nicks me too. Right across the face its claws grab me. Knocks me right to the floor and the gun from my hands. I can feel a stinging on my cheek, but I have no idea how deep the wound is or how much I'm bleeding. I just hope Elliot can gather himself and rush to our only chance of survival before one of the Contractors gets his greasy paws on it.

I'm hearing more gunshots. They ring off the walls of the rundown little shop with a curt and dangerous noise. It's probably stupid, I'm lying face down in a tiny puddle of my own blood, laughing. I can't keep the giggles contained inside my guts and they just bubble over and out of me. Those gunshots, mean and angry, have to be Elliot's. He's gone and played my sparkling knight twice in the same day, the insufferable asshole. (I will get back at him for this, my dear reader, I can assure you.)

"Who's the idiot now, idiot?" He snarls not unlike a five year old brat. In the middle of the mayhem and the loneliness, I forget that Elliot's used to being a spoiled little blueblooded bastard. I've seen him in tailored suits and his hair combed with surgical precision (he'd visited the orphanage enough; more to see me than because Daddy's name was plastered on the building), but the leather and the sun tan and the bloodstains suit him a little too well.

I'd probably look pretty goddamn suave in a tailored suit, but old rags stick to me like a second skin. I'd ask Elliot to take us to a nice tuxedo shop or something in a similar vein—just for the hell of it—but he'd set fire to all of his nice clothing before we left Nightray Manor (its remains, really)_ [I only keep the name "Nightray" in my report, for I feel this journal will prove a vital resource in our discovery of the family's involvement with the Illegal Contractor outbreak]_, so I'm assuming it's probably an unhappy subject for him. Maybe I'll ask about it when he's next in a good mood at three in the morning. (This is when Elliot tells me the most about his life. One of his [remaining, surviving, _alive_] older brothers is a creep and the other a coward, or so he says. Regardless, they are the last family he has left to hold near and dear.)

He offers me a hand and I drag myself upupup towards the cracked ceiling. I don't even want to chance a look around the store: too many corpses. The air reeks of blood and guts and that rotten stench that could be nothing other than Venom.

"You're welcome." And as he spits the words, I sometimes find myself wondering if Elliot can speak in things other than growls and snarls. I ask about the clothes and he gives another sort of gruff hiss—says he wasn't about to "snatch a single fuckin' thing," because he had to save my "fuckin' scrawny ass." I wish I knew why he was always so angry and so vulgar. If I were to psychoanalyze him (taking a moment to pretend like I haven't done so previously), I'd say that he's rebelling against his many years of formal schooling. Trying to unlearn everything that he'd ever been taught by his omniscient tutors and experienced relatives. He wants to be made up of his own knowledge.

_That_ may be how you set a table and act elegantly and utilize the English language properly, but **this **is how you fucking shoot a fucking monster 'til it's fucking dead.

I quickly glance around the shop. And but of course the place is quiet as a catacomb, and twice as disgusting.

Let's go back, I tell him. We can still get clothes and get out. He looks at me, eyes traced with something that could maybe be misinterpreted as fondness. "…you need something to eat."

It's a fact. He's not being cute or sweet or kind, my Elliot, he knows that I _need_ food.

(And I'm certain that Elliot is hungry as well, but it's not like he's got a monster living in his guts he needs to keep at bay.)

I think I can wait, I say, one more town. There's got to be another one close. Let's just get some clothes. I want my damn jacket He graces me with an eye roll and a generally overdramatic gesture. Tossing his hands to the air, he says, "Fine, fine. We'll go get your fucking jacket," And he's got his gun firmly fixed in his bloodsoaked leather gloves (damn that bastard and his self-destruction; made me forget he's bleeding like an animal). I tell him I'll look at his arm, I promise, and he looks like he couldn't care less.

Lights a cigarette and flicks it into the store before we leave. "Good thing it's a gas station" and he almost smiles a bit as the place devours itself in its own flames. I nod, and we press on, down the street back to from whence we came, letting the inferno rage behind us.

We should probably just leave. Run away. I ought to recede like a rat back into its hole, and get my gun. Give a tiny attempt to protect myself—start caring about my own existence. It's hard to have even the slightest sense of self-preservation in this monster-run society. If you're bound to die at any given moment, why bother carrying a weapon and trying to kill everything that tries to kill you first? If you run into more than five Chains at a time, you are going to die. (Unless, maybe, if you're Elliot. At this point I don't think anything can kill the jerk.)

It all goes back to the cigarettes and the speeding and the rooftops.

We reach the store, and almost immediately a new black t-shirt, new black jeans, and a new black jacket have found their way onto Elliot's skin, sticking to him like they're sewn into his body. (Well, not _new. _Never new. They have to be all old and worn down and used and, God damn it, they have to _smell _like some sick freak lived and died in them.) And he's got another bundle of clothes under his arms, because I really doubt he'd enjoy making anymore pit stops anytime in the future.

I've got a pile of unstylishness and bigness and baggyness and comfort. A red jacket in my arms and I'm grinning just a bit.

Meeting up with me, he flashes one of his sly, small, awkward smiles. We're outside the rundown shop (because, yes, _everything_ is rundown nowadays) and he nods his head to that eyesore he calls a car. "Shall we?" And his grin is just so crooked and wicked and charming that I follow him.

I ask about the lab coat we saw earlier. The Abyss. Maybe we should go check out one of the labs. Rumors about a (better) cure have been circulating around ever since the first goddamn Contractor came to be. We could always look around, I point out. It's not as though it could do any harm to look.

"Except that we could fucking get ourselves killed, babe." And the same old worn leather gloves (once his father's, I think) crawl, bloodsoaked and beaten, into his pocket in search for a cigarette. He takes it out and lights it. He's sucking in chemicals, and I'm wondering why he'd call me something so derogatory and endearing. He's probably just doing it out of spite; anything to make him come off as more of an ass.

I'm reminded of that nasty hole he's got in him, and I rip up an old shirt for makeshift bandaging and splash some alcohol on the wound before wrapping it up tightly. It's been on there fifteen seconds and the fabric is already shining pink. He frowns.

So, I ask, what's the plan? Are we still heading for The City? He nods.

"Not like we got anywhere else to be," as he puts the keys in the ignition and that whitenoise haunts my ears once more. "So we might as well check it out." And I ask about his brothers, but he pretends not to hear me.

We didn't get much, some clothes and some gasoline, but what we really need is food and sleep. I pull out the map, allowing my fingers to creep across it and point to another location. Thirty minutes. Food and sleep, I remind him. He nods and slams his foot against the gas pedal.


	3. o3

_Backstory!...and a wild new character appears?_

* * *

My fingernails are digging into the porcelain white of the toilet seat like it's the only thing keeping me grounded to this very Earth. Splishes and splashes echo throughout the undersized room. It's dirty and stinking and stained and _splash splash_it matches the rubyyellow stomach acid I'm coughing up.

(Elliot had to walk out of the room. Said that the red and gold of my bloody vomit reminded him too much of some "slimy dickhead" he used to know.)

Consequently, Elliot and I weren't able to stop to get food in time, so my belly decided to get together and riot against me.

We pulled off to some vile motel, and the place is decomposing hard and fast. Elliot grabbed all our stuff with one arm and me with the other, and dragged it all across the parking lot to some dirty old room. He puts me down on the bed and I was sweating and he gave me just enough time to hop up and sprint to the bathroom.

I'm spitting up blood and my throat burns with the acid of food I've never eaten. It growls and screams as it tries to force itself up my intestines and back through my mouth. I haven't been able to keep the little monster quiet, and he wants to come out and say hello.

Now, allow me to explain.

It began, I suppose, that day at the park. It was sunny and brilliant and my parents were there. _My parents_. Mother with her long curls and father with his hard smooth eyes and they each would hold one of my hands and I was very small but very well loved.

We met a man with a pointed face and bright eyes. Smiling he cooed, "oh what a cute baby boy!" and I only remember this word-for-word because it scared me so much.

My mother seemed to take to him immediately, because she was the soft and kind sort of woman (or at least I remember her as such) and was quick to trust anyone who complemented her so passionately as this man did. And he was so eloquent and well-spoken that he soon enough had my father wrapped around his finger as well. The three chatted with intense animation, and I saw with my hair short—and not in my eyes—and I was able to watch vividly.

(Kind people, my parents, but naive. I suppose this is why they got themselves killed.)

And they're talking away merrily, like they've been friends for years. My little boy sense of time distorts things, but we were there for hours, I swear to you. Isla Yura mesmerized them, drew them in, and bit down on them like a spider to flies. I don't even remember how old I was, but I remember not trusting him. Not liking him. I remember when he put his hands on my head and whispers into my ears, "my what big eyes you have," I just wanted to cut them out from my skull and tear them apart and hide them from the rest of the world for forever.

Grinning and smiling like he's incapable of doing anything else, Yura invites my parents to a party at his house. "A little get together," he breathed out, and I remember his words hit my face hot and strong.

I didn't want to go, I really didn't. But mother stuffed me inside my nicest suit and packed me into the car.

Yura's house was so big it seems an insult to call it a house, but I'm not trying to flatter him—not really—so that's what I'll call it. We walk in, and it's all shiny marble floors and glittery chandeliers, and mother and father seemed so out of place in their rubbish outfits. Mother's favorite blue dress has more coffee/lipstick stains than actual blue fabric, and father didn't even tie his tie properly. I look too small and too weak in my too big suit.

There are waiters and servants buzzing about the grand halls, carrying trays of champagne and splendor like it's the sort of thing they were born to do. My parents helped themselves, more than they should have, and this is where the tragedy really begins.

Yura came out, and he's all righteousness and vivid things, and when he spoke everyone listened. He told us about being new and how to make things bigger and better.

(I remembered pulling at my collar, and thinking that my suit was already too big. It didn't need to get any bigger.)

He wanted us to join him, he said. "The future will be brighter," and he smiled, and I wished that he would stop repeating the same words over and over.

He had us all hold hands, everyone that he'd invited to that party, and told us to close our eyes. My hands were so small so I just grabbed onto mother's index father with one and father's thumb with the other, and I was thankful to close my eyes because I remember how much Yura liked them.

I probably held both of them too tightly, because when my eyes split open they were lying at my feet.

Curled up like little children, they almost looked as if they were sleeping. "Mommy," I remember saying. "Daddy." And I remember neither of them answering me.

"I know about you," Isla Yura told me, lips aflame with wickedness. "Those eyes of yours. You, my dear, are so very _special._" He came to me, and wrapped his long arms around my tiny shaking body, and told me it was all going to be alright as he pried my fingers from my parents' dead fists.

Handing me the golden goblet, he breathed out the words like they were a prayer or a curse. "Say his name, darling."

And like clockwork, I somehow knew exactly what to do.

"Humpty Dumpty."

He was pretty pissed when I told him all this, Elliot was. Started spewing all of this nonsense about contractors and zombies and bloodsucking whores.

"I know the name Yura," he told me once. "It was on my mother's lips when she dropped dead."

We've never really talked about it since then.

But, no. I am not a mindless zombie doomed to serve a little monster for the rest of forever. I have been cured.

(Side effects will be side effects though, I think, spitting into the toilet some more. "Cured," is the wrong word, probably, but the Chain's Venom usually lies silently at the bottom of my guts. More bile comes up, and I feel the need to repeat the word. _Usually_.)

The Chains were fresh and new back in the day, and the Duke Nightray was, for one reason or another, obsessed with them. I think it may have had more or less to do with his wife's involvement in the beasts, but we _don't talk about that_, so I can't exactly say.

Either way, he was a madman. An evil scientist, perhaps, and all those at the orphanage were his test subjects. He had his men poke and prod us until we split open with the answers that he wanted. It wasn't really a good time in my life, no it wasn't.

I remember waking up in that bleachwhite bed, all cracked and broken, and the first thing I noticed was that it was quiet inside my head. That evil face and those venomous words and those wicked chants of _all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put him back together again_. Gone.

No longer am I haunted by Humpty Dumpty's black eyes and sharp tongue, and my head almost feels a bit empty without all the noise.

"They wanted me to make sure you're okay. You're the first person they've ever tried a cure on."

And that's how the two of us met, plain and simple. I was unconscious and he was sitting in a corner, reading some volume of Holy Knight all nonchalant like. Making sure I'm not dead, and if that's not a good bit of foreshadowing than nothing is.

I'm fine, I told him, and I also asked if he would kindly get the fuck out?

He sputtered; spit flying from his mouth and outrage seeping from his eyes. "Don't you know who I am? My father owns this place! _I'm Elliot Nightray_!" And he throws his book to the side and stands up, all hot and angry, with a fire in his baby blues. I shed the lily sheets from my body, and slip an oversized sweater from the side of the bed over my pajamas.

No, I said. You're loud and I'm leaving. And I tried to gather myself and march down to the library. Fold myself into a corner and shake my hair over my face and read where no one would bother me.

Instead, I collapsed in a heap onto the stained carpet. Elliot picked me up and put me back to bed, and we've been what sick people could call "friends," ever since.

A little part of me misses those times; back when we would only ever read or scream or play the piano. Things were quiet and angry and beautiful and simple, and a bloody nose from a fist fight was the closest we'd find ourselves to _massacre._

It's not something we talk about (what ever is?) but I'm sure Elly misses us _back then_just as much.

"Here," he says re-entering the filthy little bathroom, and I feel a foil bag thump against the back of my head. "Just eat something already."

Pulling my face from the toilet for just a moment, I see the potato chips lying at my feet. Gee, Elliot, thanks.

"It was the best I could do. Eat quickly, I wanna get out of here."

Sure. I'll eat them if I stop puking for a minute.

"Melodramatic," Scoffing he turns, exiting the tiny little shitcolored room. "I'm getting our stuff together."

Another retch and my guts bob up and down in the toilet as I mumble, yes sir.

…

My stomach finally settles itself, for the most part, and I suck at one of Elliot's cigarettes to calm myself. He gave me a look when I asked for it, but handed one over anyway, because that's the kind of kid he is. "These things are bad for you, Leo," and he only ever uses my name when he's serious, which hardly ever happens. "I'll give you now, but don't get addicted to them." And he's slipped flawlessly into his aristocratic holier-than-thou voice, so I just nod and take it. Goddamn hypocrite.

He can kill himself just fine, but God forbid I try to do the same.

We're back in that car we live our lives in, rolling down one abandoned street or another, trying to make our way to The City as soon as possible and without dying first. Smoke festers inside me, and I feel all warm, and my lungs are shriveling up a bit but Humpty Dumpty is small and quiet inside of me. Elliot's foot is grinding into the gas pedal and I'm wondering how this car has managed to stay alive in our grasp for so long.

Casually driving along the road, I spy something in the distance. It's foggy and glittery behind my glasses, but it looks like a tiny little inferno.

Just as I'm about to pop open my lips—cigarette and all—Elliot beats me to the punch. "Ya see that?"

And when I nod and ask if we should check it out, his mouth says "no," but his eyes say yesyesyes.

So I play along, and act like he needs convincing. It's a fire, Elliot. I explain. Zombies aren't smart enough to start them; there _has _to be someone down there. Looking for help, probably.

(Let me just play his hero complex like a violin.)

Biting his lips, I can tell he knows we're both letting our curiosity get the better of us, but he slows the car down anyway. "It's not our business. We shouldn't look."

No, I agree, we probably shouldn't.

"But we will, won't we?"

And the car's pulled over and parked before I even get a chance to say: yes, we will.

We've made our way out of the desert, more or less, and a few trees are started to cloud our vision. One of them, not too far away, is all red and dancing aglow, and that's the fire that caught our eyes. Putting one foot in front of the other, we give each other sideways glances before cautiously approaching.

"Hello?" Elliot calls out, all loud like he is. "Anybody here?"

Yeah, I yell, anyone need help?

Before the sentence is even entirely out of my mouth, I see something moving quickly and dangerously in the darkness. A little blur or brown and dark red, and before I know it a little girl's in our view.

Dropping my cigarette, and stamping it out under my feet, I go to greet her.

She wraps an arm around Elliot's neck and puts a gun to his skull before I get the chance.

"Don't move." Is all she says.

So I just don't move.


	4. o4

_...sorry, amigos._

_Next one won't take so long, swear on my life. I threw in lots of characters in here to make up for the wait, see?  
_

_Review or perish. Concrit is always appreciated.  
_

* * *

It was like one of those situations where you're so fucking nervous that you end up feeling completely calm. Numb.

(Numbness and I have become intimately acquainted in my short-but-dangerous lifespan.)

I can almost feel the cold metal of the gun radiating off Elliot, and the nerves flash on his face. You'll have to forgive him, though. When placed at gunpoint, most of us will act disgustingly human. He tries to open his mouth, say _something_ to this crazy little brunette, but words just won't come out.

He's red in the face, looking at this little girl, and I don't know if he's angry or scared or embarrassed. She smiles.

"Look," she says. "Gimme all your food, okay?" A pause, and I see Elliot face twitch into a frown. He's going to say, _no you cannot have any of our fucking food_, and I think she sees that. So she presses the gun even that much closer. I want to yell, Elliot you are being held at _gunpoint_, but I feel like it'd be a waste of my words. I certainly hope he's aware of his situation.

Digging her gun to his skull, she continues, "You guys got any meat?"

And, you will have to forgive me, but I think we're all a bit confused at this point. We have clothes. We have a car. We have our lives, and with that gun she could take any of these.

"Meat like _food meat? _Meat that's actually edible?"

"Duh." She pouts.

"No, idiot." Elliot sneers, because yes he can sneer with a **gun** to his head. "Where would we get _meat_ out here? Unless you want Contractor meat, of course."

"I don't know! Where did you come from, anyway? Stupid angry little dumbass..."

"Dumbass! Who are you calling dumbass?" And Elliot's face is hot and angry and I wish I could remind him that, darling you are being threatened here. A little tact and maybe a pinch of respect couldn't hurt...

Suddenly, the trees shake. They've got violence to them, and the three of us freeze. They're just as nervous as I am, I can tell. There could be anything behind the tall bark and lush leaves. I don't know why a Chain would walk toward a flame (they've got your basic survival instincts, and even the simplest of creatures can acknowledge that fire equals bad), but we can't be sure. The breath catches in my throat I'm so afraid to make a sound, and if the Chain or the asphyxiation don't kill me the suspense will.

"Alice! Alice! Are you out here?" A soft voice broke the silence. Quiet and small and innocent, like a sweet little thing. A young girl. She called again "Alice!"

A blonde head pokes out of the clearing, green eyes shining with confusion as she looks to the scene in front of her. Two strange boys, a gun, and a tiny girl with an angry face. Oh, and did I mention _a gun_?

"Alice! What on Earth are you doing all the way out here?" Emerald eyes blink, looking like a baby deer lost in a sea of a million headlights. "Who are these people? What are you doing? And _where_ did you get a gun? Drop that right now, missy!" This girl looks very young small. Her lips twist in an unnecessary sort of way, and the bitter expression looks lost on her sweet face. She looks confused and she looks lost and she looks angry all the same. "Alice, don't you understand? Brother has been looking everywhere for you!"

And this _girl_. This teeny tiny blonde thing, she stomps up to the little psychopath, and what she does—I lie to you not—she _slaps the gun out of the other girl's hand_ and away from Elliot's forehead.

"I'm _so_ sorry about that," she breathes out, face softening in sympathy. Her fingers fly to Elliot's skin. "Are you okay? She didn't hurt you, did she?"

Elliot has never been a very polite person. He likes to yell and doesn't like to be nice. He had an older sister, _once upon a time_ he tells me, but she was a Nightray. Short dark hair and a nasty frown and a fiery attitude. She had those icy blue eyes, always looking like they wanted to cut through something. He was never kind to her, but she was never kind to him. In short, Elliot and women…don't go well together.

"Don't _touch _me! Who the hell do you think you are! I can take care of myself, thank you very much!" And he gracelessly smacks her hand away from his almost-gunshot-wound.

Elliot, I tell him before he continues to be an insensitive asshole, this girl just saved your life. Please try to be grateful. He snaps his vision away from the baby blonde and over to me. He's got that look in his eyes that he gets when he's upset. Elliot frowns like a dog that's been reprimanded and my face remains blank behind my wide circular lenses. His face reads like he's about to say something stupid, so I cut him off.

He's fine, thank you. I tell the girl. It's very nice to meet a sensible human being out here.

When she grins, it looks very small and cute and modest. She has a general air of prettiness to her, petite and soft and almost magical. Like a little pixie or something.

"Ooh," she coos and the sound is so sweet it makes my teeth want to rot. "What a pleasure it is to meet you!" Her lips are too pink, I decide. It makes me want to dislike her.

Instead of hating her, I grin back. Introduce myself. Oh, and my friend here is Elliot, I tell her, he's sorry for yelling.

"No I'm not." Yes he is. "No I'm not." Yes he is. "No! I'm _not!"_

And I almost want to sigh as the trees rustle again, ending our argument. Honestly, how much can these woods hide? They're barren and dead and very few of the trees still hold their leaves close. Not to mention the fact that the fire is next to us, still burning red and hot, consuming everything that has not yet been consumed. A blonde head—ANOTHER blonde head—pokes out of the foliage and green eyes are twinkling, all scrunched up.

"Ada! Alice! Oh I've been _so_ worried for my baby sisters!"

"_God," _Elliot moans, smashing his palm to his face, "There are _more_ of them!" He looks like he might start throwing his head onto the rood of our car. Repeatedly. Over and over and over. Honestly, I'd be shocked if it didn't draw blood. Thankfully, his skull stays fixed to his neck and away from the glossy red paint. The frustrations remains on his face, though. "Fuck this. Leo, let's go."

"Go where?" The dark-haired girl, little Alice, asks. "There's nothing." And her sentence shouldn't make any sense, but her eyes have an amethyst sort of sparkle to them, and it's very depressing in this sort of way, so I understand. Elliot looks to the ground. It must be because he understands too.

"I know," he says, nervously biting at his lip and looking out into the abyss of the skyline. "But we're still going to go out there and try to look."

"…look for what?" The boy asks, yellow hair shining bright in the shadow of their fire. He looks painfully curious. Hopeful, maybe. But maybe I'm just hoping that he's hoping, because damn it we could use a little more faith around here.

Elliot's lips twitch, because he wants to say what he's thinking, but he can't. He won't. He doesn't want to admit such a weakness to these people, these complete strangers whom he neither likes nor respects. He doesn't want them to know that he's hoping, too.

I decide to come to his rescue, answering for him. We're going to The City, is all I say, because that's enough, and it's true.

The taller girl—Ada, with the blonde hair and the green eyes and she looks like a pixie—perks up. "The City?" She asks, innocently, curiously, naively. "Brother, isn't that where he said he'd go?"

The boy's eyes twitch, and they look strange. They seem different. Like they're confused and in pain yet happy. He looks hurt, but there's affection in there too. "Yeah," he replies. "yeah he said he'd be there."

Ada's face lights up like a Christmas tree. She seems as though she's on the verge of jumping for joy. "Then we should go! Come on, Oz, let's go with them!"

Anger flitting across his face, Elliot does a complete one eighty from upset to pissed off. "Who invited you to come along!"

I did. I say without even thinking. Elliot, we're taking them with us. They have someone to find, just like we do. They're coming along.

He wants to argue, I know he does. It's his nature. He _has_ to. If he didn't constantly fight me, constantly shoot down every idea I've ever had ever, he wouldn't be able to live. It's a Nightray trait, I think; they feel the need to fight. They like to create problems. Retaliate. Revolt.

So it scares me half to death when he just nods and gets in the car.

I want to say that it's something about these people. These three kids. They look almost as lost and confused and fucked up as we are, so maybe he just pities them. Sympathizes with them. I don't know. I like to pretend I understand how he thinks, what he does, what he says, but I don't. I don't know anything about it.

He neatly folds himself into the driver's seat, motioning for me to move towards the back of the car. I brainlessly do so, watching him as he lights a cigarette. He takes slow, lazy drags. "Get the sodas, Leo. Grab me one then toss them in the trunk. We need the room, I guess."

I feel from the cardboard boxes, moving them as instructed. I snatch up two cans, tossing one to Elliot and then keeping one for myself. While I'm back here, I find scraps of paper and cigarette butts and try to brush them to the side, keeping the space as neat as I can make it before moving to my post in the passenger seat.

"Want some?" He gestures to me, sticking his hand in my face, lit cigarette and all. He remembered my stomach was bothering me. Cute. I nod and inhale once or twice before handing it back to him. "Anything else you need before we leave?" He says to me, quietly as possible, so our new companions don't hear or acknowledge the fact that he actually has _feelings_ and _cares_ about people. I shake my head, telling him no, and he nods while he revs up the engine.

We're both sitting here, comfortable in our own little world of this bright red convertible when I realize that our new additions are still standing outside the car, next to the fire, gawking.

Oh, yes. I smile as best I can. You guys are okay with sitting in the back?

The girl, Ada her name is Ada and I need to refer to people by their names, blinks wide eyed and confused. "What?"

You need to get to The City, and we're going to get you there.

When the boy smiles, it stretches nearly ear to ear. "I wanna sit in the middle!" He screams as he hops into the back seat.

"Yeah, yeah." Elliot sighs. "Don't mess up the seating back there, okay?"

"It's _already_ messed up." The boy notes, twisting up his nose at pretzel crumbs and cigarette burns. Despite myself, I laugh. He's completely right, I tell Elliot. Elliot groans.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Listen, are the two of you going to come along too or what?" He sighs, addressing the two girls who are still standing outside with confused looks on their faces.

Ada smiles, and it looks like her brother's. "Sure," She giggles, hopping in the back. Driver's side, right behind Elliot. "Alice, are you coming?"

Alice is outside the car, glaring daggers at the shiny red paint. "I don't trust them." She pouts.

"This coming from a girl who put the gun to my head." Elliot pouts right back.

"Alice just come on," the boy grins big and bright. "If anything happens to us, I promise I'll protect you!"

"Fine," she huffs, "but I don't like this."

Elliot's eyes say, _me neither, _ but he doesn't verbalize the thought.

Oh, I say out loud before the thought runs out of my mind and I lose it, why was there a fire there?

Ada looks at me, confused. "…I thought you started it?"

"Yeah," Alice agreed, "I was just going over to see what was wrong when I found you two."

Elliot stamps his foot to the gas pedal, and we drive away quickly. "Then let's not stick around to see who really set if off."


End file.
